


A Demon's Tale

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Canon Divergence - A Study in Pink, Demon John Watson, Demon Sex, Don't copy to another site, Humor, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24715747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: “I wanted a proper scary demon,” he says. “I was thinking of one who could intimidate bullies, make people listen to me, and fetch the biscuits from the top shelf. Instead I get a short, cuddly, clumsy—”“Clumsy?” I'll admit to short and cuddly, but I am very coordinated. Definitely not clumsy.He is annoyed that he ended up with a demon who doesn’t act demonic. He gets shouty and insults me, calls me a rubbish demon. This hurts my feelings. Really, he should be happy he has a demon who makes tea and keeps the bed warm.Or: John is a demon. Sherlock summoned him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 107
Kudos: 264





	1. Caput Primum

**Author's Note:**

> Appreciation _summa cum laude_ to the incomparable I_am_lampy for reading this and offering many suggestions which have made it a better story!
> 
> Gorgeous cover art by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant) can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28734024) !!!

“You’re back.” His face is impassive, but I can feel his anger.

We’re in the pathology lab at Bart’s, alone in the room. No smile, no hug. Not even a bloody _hello._

“Yes,” I say. “And how are _you_?” I hope he can hear the sarcasm, but that would be asking too much, I suppose. “You’re clean, I see.”

He gives me the side-eye but does not move from the microscope. “You left.”

He doesn’t ask. Much too stubborn for that. So I tell him. “I had no choice. There was a war. I was called up.” _Mostly true_ , I think.

“Oh? A _demon_ war?”

I nod. He’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye, pretending to be interested in a slide which isn’t there.

“It was important,” I say. “And I wasn’t gone that long.” I’m not good at estimating time, so I don’t try to put a number on it, but it felt like a few weeks. Honestly, I have no idea. Human time is like water: sometimes it’s an unmoving block of ice, other times it’s a tsunami.

“Seven years, John,” he says. His voice is a blizzard of tiny ice crystals.

But he said my name, so I know he’s not hiring an exorcist to get rid of me. Even so, he’s angry. And though he may not currently be using drugs, his rehab is recent. I’m trying to decide how to explain my abandonment of him (which was, apparently, long enough for him to notice), but before I can say a word, a woman enters the lab. She’s wearing a lab coat and carrying a cup of coffee.

“I wasn’t aware that demons had an organised society that could degenerate into war,” he says.

The woman pauses, coffee mid-air. “What did you say?”

“Thank you,” he replies, taking the cardboard cup.

 _Here we go again_ , I think. “I prefer _daimon._ And I’m not talking to you until we’re alone. You don’t need to look any crazier than you already do.”

“Demon, daimon,” he mutters. “Why don’t you just manifest?”

“Who are you talking to, Sherlock?” the woman asks.

“If I look crazy, it’s your fault.” He takes a sip of the coffee.

The woman looks puzzled. “My fault?”

He points directly at me. “His fault.” Since she can’t see me, this isn’t convincing evidence of his sanity.

And he’s wrong. Actually, it’s all his fault. He summoned me.

* * *

It’s a strange kind of symbiosis that exists between a demon and its host.

People say _demon;_ in the Greek, it’s _daimon;_ in Latin, _daemon._ Doesn’t matter. What I am is a supernatural being somewhere between humans and gods. Unlike the gods, we hover close to humans. Unlike humans, we do not stay tethered to the Earth unless we are bound. Without a human bond, we drift into _Pandaemonium_. As the name implies, it isn’t a fun place to be.

But demons aren’t evil. Humans would have it that we are the possessors, they the possessed, but it often seems quite the opposite to me. It is true that we seek out humans, but that's because we need a life force to manifest in the human world. I admit we’re possessive, but that's because we want to protect our hosts. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship. Demons exist to protect humans, to help and inspire them. And to have sex with them. When humans decided that sex was evil, they started exorcising us. A few of us stuck it out through the Middle Ages, but many of our brethren disappeared into Pandaemonium, never to return.

I was exorcised once, but the officiating priest wasn’t a real priest. Priests suppose that demons come from _hell,_ or at least they like to spread that rumour (probably because it helps with recruitment; nobody wants to go to hell with all those demons poking pitchforks into them.) This particular priest didn’t know Latin very well, and instead sending me back to hell (ad inferos), he turned me into a child (ad infantem). It was a couple of years before I learned to talk again. I’ve never quite gotten over the humiliation.

But these are things I can never explain to Sherlock. He is very demanding for a human who doesn’t know he is my master. I call him my human; he calls me his _parasite_. I thought that was a compliment until I learned what it meant. I am not a tapeworm. I take, but I give as well.

Over the course of my existence, I have been hosted by a number of humans. Some became accustomed to me, while others went completely insane. There was no way of knowing, when I stepped out of a conjuring circle, whether I would find a comfortable home, or be tossed out like junk mail. Humans are a mixed bag. But, all else being equal, I prefer having one.

I was not prepared, however, for Sherlock.

Before I went to war, I had lived with him for years. The concept of years is not actually something I understand, but it seems like a long time, so I say _years_. I observed him as he grew up, adjusting my appearance to approximate his age. I’d done this with every human I’d allowed to claim me. It makes them much more comfortable to have me following them around. A small boy with horns sticking out of a mop of blond hair does not convey confidence to an adult human I might wish to intimidate. Not that intimidation is something I often do. Even in my adult form, I am not very scary.

The night we met, I was in my usual unbound form, that of a child (thanks to the phoney priest and his substandard Latin). Sherlock had made a circle under the bed using a length of red yarn, which allowed me to enter his room in corporeal form. I could smell the biscuits he’d put out; their aroma was what drew me. From inside the circle, I could see a plate in the middle of his bedroom floor piled with chocolate digestives. If you ever plan to summon a demon, remember: demons are scavengers. Use the right bait and we will come.

The biscuits were obviously bait; even I could see that. I knew to be careful, but I was also beginning to feel quite hungry. Being corporeal requires energy. I stretched out my arm, keeping my feet and knees inside the circle, but couldn’t quite reach. I’m not very large, as demons go. Even compared to a human child, I am small. The sleeper in the bed above me was silent, not moving. I listened for a while, but heard only regular, deep breathing.

It was a risk, but I hopped outside of the circle, grabbed a fistful, and stepped back inside. I didn’t waste any time consuming the biscuits. They were delicious, and there were still more on the plate. Less concerned with caution now, I stepped out again, grabbed the remaining biscuits, and crammed them into my mouth as quickly as I could. Intending to make a quick exit, I furtively looked around to make sure I hadn’t been seen. Deciding I was safe, I slipped under the bed to finish eating my prize. It was only when the last biscuit was in my mouth that I noticed that the circle had disappeared.

“Esne tu daemon?” _Are you a demon?_

A head, attached to a body, was hanging over the side of the bed the bed. Dark curly hair, pale eyes. A child.

He was holding the yarn circle. No escape now. I had carelessly allowed myself to become visible, and as he had spoken in Latin, I was compelled to answer. “Mmfm,” I said, chewing. Swallowing, I watched those pale eyes. “Sum.” _I am._

“Quid tibi nomen est?” _What is your name?_

“Nomen mihi non est. Daemon sum.” _I don’t have a name. I’m a demon._

I hoped that he would not understand the significance of this. Demons don’t have names. Humans name anything that seems remotely alive— pets, cars, plants, appliances, and baby humans. It has little to do with affection, everything to do with power. Naming means taking ownership. If a demon has a host, he must use the name his host gives him, indicating he has been claimed. As I was compelled to answer his question, I had revealed that I did not have a host, leaving him the right to give me a name and claim me.

He understood. “Te astringo,” he said. _I bind you._ “Tibi nomen est John.” _Your name is John._

Considering that my last host had named me _Pookie_ , I felt that _John_ was an improvement. I was amenable to being hosted by a human who had sense about names.

“Bene,” I said, accepting his claim— and hoping my acceptance would be accompanied by more biscuits. “Me tibi obligo.” _I bind myself to you._

Contesting a claim is more difficult than you can imagine. It involves a Demon Tribunal, the summoning of thirteen random demons, seven of whom must agree. Since demons are not good at counting (or agreeing), this usually devolves into chaos. I didn’t have a good argument, since I’d voluntarily come onto my binder’s territory. It was my own fault, for not being observant, that he’d caught me outside of the circle.

“Veni huc.” _Come here,_ he said, hauling me off the floor and onto the bed.

He began feeling my head and I knew what he sought. Obligingly, I allowed my horns to emerge so he could feel them.

“Quantos annos natus es?” _How old are you?_

I shrugged. “Nescio.” _I don’t know._

Like most demons, I have little facility with numbers. Sherlock, however, was fluent in that language. I had never tried to infiltrate a mind like his. I felt as if I’d been hit by a truck.

“Ego te domino,” he said. _I am your master._

“Te servio,” I said. _I serve you._

The liturgy was complete.

At first, he talked to anyone who would listen, telling them about his pet demon. He was intelligent, even at that young age, but hadn't figured out that other people would assume I was his imaginary friend.

“Who’s John?” Mummy would ask when he was chattering on about something we'd done.

“He's my demon,” he said. “He's not really scary, so you don't have to worry. He can speak Latin, but I have to teach him English before we go to school.”

She gave him a vacant, dismissive smile. “That's lovely.”

“He likes chocolate biscuits.”

“You'll spoil your dinner.”

And then I'd have to climb into the cupboard and steal the biscuits when she wasn't watching. And he'd be caught with crumbs on his hands.

“John did it.”

His older brother was sceptical, but played along. After all, Sherlock was a child— a brilliant child— and Mycroft was clearly trying to accept his brother’s association with a demon in the context of imagination. All little boys pretend, even geniuses. Maybe especially geniuses. I remained incorporeal, though sometimes I glimmered. He might have noticed that a few times. He would look askance, frowning, as if he saw me staring back. His intelligence frightens me a bit. But he was close enough to being an adult that I need not have worried. Adults see only what they wish to see.

Sherlock knew exactly what to make of me. He wanted a demon of his own, he said, and I was it.

As he grew, so did my power. I’d been without a host for quite a while, so it took some time for me to regain my full powers. Because of the botched exorcism, I still looked like a child, but he was a child as well, so it was fine. At first, I managed glimmers and shadows and, every now and then, was able to produce a reflection. While Sherlock was studying Calculus and reading Beowulf, I was practicing Manifestation at Will.

Eventually, I was able to manifest, usually on purpose, but I never got past translucency. I admit that Manifestation is a difficult skill for me, one I have never bothered much about. Sherlock decided I was a special needs demon. “It’s all right,” he assured me. “Opacity is overrated.”

* * *

Mycroft is talking to a policeman whose name is Lestrade. They’re in an office drinking coffee, and I'm listening in on their conversation— because I can. It’s part of my duty to protect my host. They can’t see me in my present state.

“Your brother called me, asked for a case,” says Lestrade. “I thought I should check with you. He’s not using, I think, but he seems strange. Talks to himself, more than usual.”

_No, he’s been talking to me._

Mycroft thinks his brother is mentally ill because he talks to me. I think mental illness is something humans made up to explain demons. Most humans don’t believe in demons, Sherlock says. When they’re small, humans are told about demons and monsters and bogeymen just so they won’t wander off and be kidnapped by other humans or run over by cars or fall down into cisterns. When they’re older, they learn it was all a ruse to make them obedient. That’s why they react badly when they see Sherlock talking to me. Adults already know not to fall into cisterns; they don’t need demons to remind them.

“Mr Lestrade, you must understand that there is no cure for my brother’s… _condition_.”

“His _condition_. What exactly is that?”

“It’s been labeled in various ways. As a teen, he had some incidents which prompted a diagnosis of schizophrenia. The last few years have been better, but he recently seems to have experienced a relapse. He’s been having visual and auditory hallucinations. More specifically, he has resumed talking to his _daemon—”_

“Demon?” Lestrade says, sitting up straight. “I knew he was a bit…”

 _Daimon,_ I say.

“Daemon, Mr Lestrade. Not the same as a demon. It may merely be a difference in terminology, but he’s very sensitive about it. Demons are an invention of medieval churchmen who could not explain mental illness. Sherlock does not believe he is _possessed by_ a demon. He claims that he has _enslaved_ a daemon. Do you understand?”

Lestrade rubs the back of his head. “Not entirely. You say there's no cure?”

“He's supposed to take medication daily to suppress the hallucinations. He complains that the side effects dull his brain, and denies that anything is wrong with him that would require medication. While he was at university, he started taking illicit drugs to counter the effects of his treatment and I had to place him in rehab. This relapse is why he lives with me, and why I am going to insist that he get a flatmate if he wants to move out.”

“So, you’d rather he not take any cases?”

“No, it might be good for him. He is no longer using narcotics and cocaine. I will continue to have him tested to make sure he stays clean. Just let me know if you observe anything… off.”

Lestrade nods. “Will do.”

* * *

I’m following Sherlock home from Lestrade’s crime scene. He figured it out within ten minutes, and now he’s done showing off, so we leave.He’s talking to me as we walk, or (actually) ranting at me. Still angry.

“You disappear without a word, stay missing for seven years, and you expect me to simply accept this?”

A woman with a dog frowns at him. All she can see is a tall man in a long coat, swooshing angrily down the street, talking vehemently to himself.

“Why do you keep talking to me?” I say. “ You know I can—”

He turns and faces me. “No. John, you can’t read my mind. You are, in fact, pathetic at reading my mind.” I start to protest, but he carries on. “Let’s be honest, John. You have never mastered mind infiltration, nimbleness, or fright. I don’t wish to hurt your feelings, but it's true.”

I am abashed. These are things a demon should know how to do. Things I have never mastered. Now he will begin to berate me, wondering aloud how he ended up with a rubbish demon who can't even do the important demonic things.

“What do you want?” I ask quietly. “I can be what you want.”

“Why did you come back, John?”

“Because… I’m your demon.”

“Do you know why I wanted a demon?” he asks.

I don’t know. _Who_ wouldn’t _want a demon?_ If I’m honest, though, I can think of lots of people who probably wouldn’t want a demon. _Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly_ …

He is staring down at me. He looks mad, like a person who wants to blow things up. People are crossing the street to get away from him.

“I wanted a proper scary demon,” he says. “I was thinking of one who could intimidate bullies, make people listen to me, and fetch the biscuits from the top shelf. Instead I get a short, cuddly, clumsy—”

“Clumsy?” I'll admit to short and cuddly, but I am very coordinated. Definitely _not clumsy._

“Clearly you’ve forgotten all the times you’ve fallen off of things (furniture, for example), dropped things (mostly breakable), tripped over things (objects that make noise)— leaving me to explain the sudden noises, broken vases, and scattered debris. So, yes. Clumsy.”

“There are plenty of things I can do,” I say, ignoring the debris. “I have talents. For example, I have perfect pitch. I have a very good sense of smell. I can make tea. I keep the bed warm. I’m good at crosswords. I always know the Latin clues.”

“You can’t spell, John. _Anyboudy? Toesday? Aginst?_ It took you months to learn how to spell your own name. _Jhon. Jonh._ It only has four letters, for god’s sake!”

“Why have letters if they don't make any sound?” I counter. “English doesn’t make any sense. I can spell Latin words just fine.” This is a point I should probably not argue. “Besides, demons aren’t known for their spelling or punctuation.”

He rolls his eyes. “Let’s think. What _are_ demons known for? Number one: they’re _scary._ That’s the entire list, John. Without that, you might qualify as a gnome, perhaps, or a gremlin— if you could manifest—but no one would mistake you for a demon.”

This hurts. I pull myself up to my full adult height and try to make my eyes glow red. I feel them start to itch. A tear runs down my cheek. “I may not be _scary_ ,” I say, “but I can manage _creepy._ Most of the time, anyway. I am quite good at making people think they’ve seen something out of the corner of their eye, or that they heard a voice in the cupboard. I’ve made pipes bang—“

“The entire point of a demon is to scare people!” he yells. “A demon is not supposed to make people wipe off their glasses to remove smudges, or call the plumber to check the pipes. A demon should _not_ be subtle. A demon is supposed to induce terror! _Scary_ , not cuddly!”

He's right. In most ways, he's much scarier than I am.

He sighs. “John. You're small, cute, and don't have five legs ending in hooves. You don’t have red eyes or a tail that looks like an arrow. You don't even have horns!”

“I do _so_ ,” I retort. I will think of a better retort later, long after the moment has passed. “I have horns.”

“Oh, let me get my magnifying lens and see if I can find them!” He laughs rather meanly.

Self-consciously, I put my hand to my head. They aren't _that_ small, I think.

“You've never scared anyone,” he says.

Everyone is staring at him. Someone has pulled out a mobile phone. Either he will be on Snapchat in the next few minutes, or the police will arrive.

“I think we need to go home,” I say.

He stomps off. I follow.

For someone who managed to summon a demon before he was old enough to delete the solar system, Sherlock is surprisingly ignorant about us.

“So, you were conscripted into the demon army,” he says. We’re on a train now, underground. He hasn’t told me where we’re going.

People are giving him side looks, pretending to read newspapers or stare at their phones, but they are alert, on edge, wondering whether he is going to pull out a harpoon and threaten them.

“Adloquere mihi latine,” I say. “Videris insanus.” _Speak to me in Latin. You look crazy._

He regards me with his pale eyes. He would make a good demon, I think. He’s not a bit _cute_. No one would ever describe all those angles and elbows as _cuddly._ He’s dangerously handsome, oddly compelling. And now he is deducing me. He doesn’t often bother because he’s known me almost forever and finds me disappointing. And boring.

“Vulnus habes,” he says. _You have a wound._

I don’t know how he deduced this. I suppose I am easy to deduce, having failed to master opacity.

“Vulneratus sum,” I concede. _I was wounded._

“That’s why you won’t manifest,” he says. “Where are your wings?”

“Latine,” I say. _Speak Latin._

“How does Latin help?” he asks petulantly. “A man talking to himself in Latin does not appear more sane than one speaking any other language. It’s the _talking to oneself_ part that seems crazy.”

I think he could do better at appearing sane; he doesn’t try very hard. He is annoyed that he ended up with a demon who doesn’t act demonic. He gets shouty and insults me, calls me a rubbish demon. This hurts my feelings. Really, he should be happy he has a demon who makes tea and keeps the bed warm.

We reach a compromise.I follow him around, and he mutters under his breath.


	2. Caput Alterum

We’re at Mycroft’s house because we are living with him. It's my fault, according to Sherlock; I am the reason Mycroft thinks he's insane, the reason he started taking illicit drugs, the reason he must be taking drugs again. Why else would he be talking to himself?And if I would just let Mycroft see me, just once— but I won't because I don't like Mycroft.

Sherlock doesn’t exactly hate his brother, but they don’t get along, either. He would rather sleep in a homeless shelter than in Mycroft’s house. This is not possible because of _surveillance_ , which is the thing Mycroft does best. Surveillance is a type of _technology_ , which is a variety of human _magic_ inaccessible to demons. If he knew that I was more than a figment of Sherlock's mind, he would definitely try to put surveillance on me. He is a poncy sort of human, quite intimidating. I would rather that he not see me.

But I take every opportunity to unsettle him, hoping to prove to Sherlock that I can scare his brother. Or maybe just startle him. I make the pipes bang while he’s in the shower. He asks Geoffrey, his man, to call a plumber and have them looked at. I track muddy footprints into the kitchen. He yells at the gardener, who curses at him in one of the languages Mycroft hasn't learned yet.

If I were to curse at him, it would be in Pandaemonic, a language which he will never learn. I would say, _suto_ _igedakuke ho heku,_ which means _have bad sex with yourself, ugly human._

Anyway, my wound is making it hard for me to manifest. My form seems to have stabilised, and I have calibrated my appearance to his age. Though demons do not grow or age, binding yourself to a human means following human conventions. Humans age, so I appear to age. Humans eat and sleep, so I simulate these things when appropriate. Though my wound still troubles me, just being around Sherlock has brought back most of my powers.

I know just one thing that can completely heal me, and Sherlock isn’t cooperating.

Mycroft won’t let his brother smoke in the bedroom, only outside on the veranda, so at least I don’t have to choke on his cigarette smoke. Demons don’t smoke. We’re supposed to be able to produce our own smoke. It’s one of our special effects, so when we appear, it looks like we’re stepping out of the Pit of Hell. Sherlock is smoking a lot these days, I notice. I feel like _I’m_ in the Pit of Hell.

Once he’s fallen asleep on the bed, still in his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, I crawl on top of him and lie down. I inhale his scent— cigarettes, cologne, and the expensive shampoo he uses.

“John,” he mumbles. “You’re very heavy for such a small thing.” But he doesn’t sound annoyed. “I think you must be an incubus.”

“An incubus isn’t a specific type of demon.” I’ve explained this before, under similar circumstances. “All demons like to lie on top of their humans. It’s a sign of affection. When we do this, we are called an _incubus_.” I make myself a bit heavier.

“Off,” he says. “Too heavy.”

“You used to like it,” I reply. “You liked it when I was heavy. You thought it was fun.”

“Well, now I don’t. You're squeezing all the air out of my lungs. Off.”

“Breathing is boring,” I reply. “Maybe you should quit smoking if it's so important to you.”

“John,” he says. “Off.”

“We could fornicate,” I say. “If you like.”

He snorts. “I can get off quite well without you.”

“I thought you liked it.”

He is silent.

I am reduced to begging. “Please, Sherlock. You used to like it.”

He sighs, but does not speak.

I make myself heavier.

“Fine,” he says. “Make yourself useful. If you’re going to weigh six hundred pounds and lie on top of me, you can at least make it fun.”

I take my duties seriously, even the fun ones.

He rolls on his belly and falls asleep when our fun is over. I lie on his back, no longer heavy. I feel as if the slightest breeze could waft me away from him.

_I love you_ , I whisper. _Please forgive me._

In the morning, I watch him take a shower. I note all of his scars— the needle tracks on his arms, the chemical burns on his hands, and the puncture wound on his leg from when he fell into a rather vicious bush when he was seven (trying to fly from his window, on a dare from me). He is beautiful, pale with random freckles. For all the dangerous things he's done, he's been lucky. And he has a demon looking after him. I take full responsibility for the bush incident; I was taunted into the dare.

“Show me your wound,” he says as he's getting out of the shower.

He doesn't ever ask permission to do anything. He just tells me.

“No.”

“You left me. I think you owe me some explanation.”

“I told you. I was in the war.”

“Sorry, but I didn't hear any reports of a _demon war_ in the news. Just show me the scar and I'll believe you.”

I try to feel where my wound is today. Yesterday it was on my shoulder. Today I think it's my thigh. It hurts a bit, but not enough to complain about.

I vanish my clothing and look at my legs. I can't see the wound, but I feel that it's there. Tracing it with my finger, I locate it in my belly.

“Did you forget where it is?” He smirks a bit. “Or is it just so small that it can't be seen?”

The scar has crawled between my legs, hiding from my searching fingers. Every time I get close, it heads in a new direction. I reach around my arse, trying to urge it from between my legs.

Sherlock laughs. “That's what I thought,” he says.

The wound ascends into my chest, pokes at my heart.

I follow him down to breakfast.

“I’ll be in Kazakhstan for a few days,” Mycroft informs him. “Can you manage not to get in any trouble while I’m gone?” He raises his Royal Doulton bone china tea cup with hand-painted periwinkles to his lips and takes a small sip.

I take the opportunity to move his saucer, periwinkles and all.

“I’ll be moved out before you return,” Sherlock replies. “I’ve found a flat.”

Mycroft gives him a poncy glare. “Not until you have a flatmate.” He sets his teacup down, missing the saucer. It sloshes a bit on the tablecloth before he catches it. I snigger.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I can find a flatmate.”

“I’m your flatmate,” I say. “I’ve always been your flatmate.”

Mycroft can’t hear me, obviously. “A real person, Sherlock. Are you taking your medications?”

“Of course,” he lies. “I know plenty of real people. Surely one of them is willing to live with me.”

“I’m real,” I say.

Sherlock ignores me. I drop more sugar into Mycroft’s tea.

“I’ll need to do a background check on whomever you choose.” He sips his tea, makes a face. “No drug dealers this time.”

“ _This_ time?” I say. “Who were you living with _last_ time?” It must have been while I was gone, I think. Sherlock has never had a flatmate. Except me. But apparently I don’t count.

The dishes on the sideboard rattle. No one notices.

Sherlock smiles. “Obviously.”

But what is obvious, I cannot tell. Thinking about this new flatmate is making me shake. I want to make blood pour from the ceiling, ice form on the walls.

A drop of tea falls from the spout of the teapot. The temperature in the room drops a couple of degrees. Mycroft shivers. “I’ll have Geoffrey call someone about the heat.” He stands, sets his cup in its saucer, and looks at his watch. “Anthea will keep me updated on your whereabouts while I’m gone. Lestrade said he might call you on another case if something comes up. Please stay out of trouble, brother dear.”

When he’s gone, Sherlock smiles. He takes out his phone and begins to text.

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“Find a flatmate,” he says.

“Who?”

“You’ll see.”

“It’s cold in here,” I point out. “I did that.”

He does not reply.

“Who lives here?”

We’re standing outside a door whose lock Sherlock is attempting to pick. He’s annoyed because it’s apparently one of the new locks that resist picking.

“Make yourself useful,” he says.

“What do you want me to do? I don’t know how to pick locks.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not something demons need to know.”

“Then it’s a good thing we don’t have to rely on you to get us inside.”

The door swings open, revealing a cozy-looking flat. Boxes are already here, which reminds me that while I have been eavesdropping on his brother and Lestrade, he has been scheming. The boxes are all labeled: _Do Not Touch._ I already know that they’re full of clothing and books and laboratory equipment.

“Are we committing a crime?” I ask. “I’d just like to know. Just in case you’re going to be arrested, I’d like to be prepared.”

“No need to be sarcastic, John. This is my flat.”

“You don’t have a key to your own flat?”

“Landlady’s out. She said she’d give me a key when I sign the lease.”

“So, it isn’t your flat _yet_ , you mean.”

“I made a deal with her. When I was in Florida two years ago, I helped her out. She couldn’t pay me then, so she feels she owes me. I just need to sign to make it official.”

“You were in Florida?” I ask. I’m not sure whether this is a place or a condition.

“As I said.” His phone chimes. He looks at it, frowns, and slips it back into his pocket.

“Did this involve drugs?”

“It involved drugs and murder. A case which I solved.”

“And the landlady owes you. Are you going to tell her about me?” I ask.

“No, I’m going to tell her about my _real_ flatmate.”

“I’m real.”

“You’re invisible,” he says. “I can’t introduce you to people.”

“Mycroft said you can’t move out until you have a flatmate.”

He smirks. “Then you’d better work on your manifestation skills.”

He is being cryptic, which is quieter than sarcastic, but hurts just as much. I don’t know if the _real_ flatmate is just a taunt. I will find out. I will protect him.

Mrs Hudson is a nice lady, I’ve decided. I hope that one day she’ll be able to see me. I hear her talking downstairs and think she has a demon, but she’s just talking to herself. She makes good scones. They are my favourite thing on Baker Street, so far.

My wound is healing, so I work on Manifesting at Will. Mrs Hudson is not a good test case because I can’t tell if she can see me. She carries on having a conversation with me, but she’s doing most of the talking. And then she walks right through me, which is a bit embarrassing.

“I beg your pardon,” she says. She smiles at the chair where she’s decided I’m sitting.

I’m standing in the doorway. “It’s fine,” I say.

“I’ve never talked with a demon before,” she admits. “You’re rather nicer than I expected.”

“Thank you. You’re very nice, too. For a human. Can you see me yet?”

“No, dear. My eyes are really not very good.” She hunts through her apron pockets for her glasses.

“They’re in the kitchen,” I say. “At least you can hear me. I enjoy talking with you.”

She beams at the chair. “You’re lovely. What did you say your name was?”

“John,” I say. “With a silent _h_.”

“Who did you live with while I was gone?” I ask.

“Victor. You remember him.”

I do remember Victor. Tall, blond, god-like. He was a drug dealer, had a demon named Odoacer.

“Is Victor coming to live with us?” I ask. It will be a problem if he does. I will have to make blood pour from the ceiling. Yet another skill to master.

“You know he’s not,” says Sherlock. “Why do you even ask?”

I don’t want Victor ever coming back. “Is he in jail?”

He doesn’t answer.

That night I snuggle on top of Sherlock in our new bed. I try not to be too heavy.

“Who won?” he asks. “Your war, I mean.”

“Demon wars are not so easily decided,” I say. It doesn’t do any good to explain demon things to humans. Pandaemonium is not something they can understand.

“So, you lost,” he says.

I snuggle harder. “Do you want to have sex?”

He has fallen asleep.

Well, he didn’t say no. I slide down his body and take him into my mouth.

“Who’s this?” Lestrade is looking at me, actually seeing me. And I realise that I've finally recovered Manifestation at Will. Maybe not at Will. Accidental Manifestation might be more accurate. At least I’m not translucent.

Sherlock stares. He looks at Lestrade, looks at me. Stunned into silence. But I know what to do.

“John Watson,” I say, holding out my hand. “ _Doctor_ John Watson. Lately returned from service in…” _Someplace exotic_ , I think, so he won't ask questions I can’t answer. And suddenly I can't think of any place names that are real. _Shanghai-la? Xanadu? Brigadoon?_

“Afghanistan,” Sherlock supplies smoothly. I give him a grateful smile, expecting him to look proud, but he's looking rather crazy. Like a man whose imaginary friend just became real.

“You're a doctor?” Lestrade asks.

“I am.” I smile like a person who has paid for years of education and still has loans to prove it.

“Anderson’s looking at the body,” Lestrade tells Sherlock. We climb the stairs.

The man called Anderson comes over as we enter the room where the body lies. He glares at Sherlock. “Hello, Freak.”

Lestrade introduces us. “Dr Watson, this is Dr Anderson, one of our techs.”

“You’re a doctor,” Anderson says to me. _Obviously_ , I think.

“Don’t talk out loud,” Sherlock tells him. “You’re lowering the IQ of the entire street.”

“What kind of doctor are you?” Anderson asks.

“A very good doctor,” I say. “I've done semi-colonoscopies. Lots of them. And C-sections. Even a few D-sections.”

Anderson looks at me enviously. “Where did you go to school?” This is to be a game of one-upmanship, I see. I will name a school, then he will name a better one. The boasts will pile up until one of us falters. This is something humans enjoy.

“Hogwarts.” I am confident that this is a real school. Harry Potter went there.

“Just kidding,” Sherlock says, giving me a _look_. “He trained at Bart's.”

I smile convincingly. “We used to call it Hogwarts. Just a little joke we made when we were busy doing medical things.”

Anderson’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. _Touché,_ I think. Clearly, he has yielded the battle to me.

“I need you over here, John,” Sherlock says. He takes my hand and drags me to look at the corpse.

“She’s dead,” I say, because I’m supposed to be a doctor who notices things like that.

He snorts. “I was hoping you’d go deeper than that.”

“She wasn’t shot. Or stabbed,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.” He begins crawling around the floor, looking at dust. I assume dust is in some way important to his deductive process.

“That’s Doctor Obvious to you,” I say. “I have a degree.”

On his hands and knees, Sherlock is examining the floor, where letters have been scratched. He lifts one of the woman’s hands and sees that she’s broken the index and middle nails.

I notice a demon crouching in the corner of the empty room. She looks sad, but doesn’t speak.

Sherlock is still crawling around, looking for clues and muttering to himself.

“Quid tibi nomen est?” _What is your name?_ I ask the demon, keeping my voice low.

“Mihi non iam est nomen.” _I don’t have a name anymore._

“Estne mortua domina tua?” _Is the dead woman your mistress?_

She nods.

“Quis eam interfecit?” _Who killed her?_

She looks frightened now.

“Noli timere,” I say. “Dic mihi. Quid ei accidit?” _Don’t be afraid. Tell me. What happened to her?_

“Two minutes!” shouts Lestrade. “Give me what you’ve got, Sherlock.”

Sherlock is looking at his phone. “Cardiff. Planned to be in town for just one night. Obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

“Why do you keep saying _suitcase_?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock surveys the room. “Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.”

“She was writing _Rachel_?”

“No, she was leaving an angry note in German. Of course she was writing _Rachel_ ; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?”

“There wasn’t a suitcase, Sherlock.”

“There was. Find it. It’s not suicide. They take the pills themselves. I don’t know how, but it’s murder.”

The demon leans close to my ear. “ _Moriarty_ ,” she breaths. I feel every hair on my demon body rise up.

Sherlock begins spouting off deductions. _Cardiff, wedding ring, umbrella, Rachel, pink suitcase…_

He’s pacing now. “Did anyone find a suitcase?” he roars.

“Sherlock, there was no suitcase!” Lestrade insists.

Sherlock mumbles about poison, swirls his coat, and heads down the stairs. I look around for the demon, but she’s gone. Having no other plans, I follow Sherlock down the stairs. Because I have to travel through human space, which is not instantaneous, when I arrive at the street, he is nowhere in sight.

A police human named Sally Donovan is staring at me. “You’re his friend?”

I smile, thinking of all the new friends I can make, now that I am opaque. “Oh, yes. We’re flatmates.”

“How come he’s never mentioned you before?”

“I just got home from—” I’ve already forgotten where I was supposed to be. “Pandemonium,” I decide, because that’s actually where I was.

She snorts. “You think you’ve been in _hell_? Just wait until you’ve lived with the Freak for a while. You’d better get away from him while you can. He’s a psychopath.”

I laugh. “I don’t believe in psychopaths. No such thing. Just because a person can summon demons—”

A hand on my shoulder and I’m spun around to face my flatmate. “Come along, John. Sally’s got things to do.”

I wave goodbye to her and Anderson. They stare after us.

“You did that accidentally,” he says. He’s inside a skip, digging for something.

“Did what?”

His head pops up over the side of the skip. Pasta hangs from his ear; coffee grounds are in his hair. He hauls a pink suitcase up over the side and drops it next to me. “You became real.”

“I’ve always been real,” I say. “Did you really think you were insane all this time?”

He pulls himself up and over the side, swings his legs over and lands on the ground. “Pinocchio,” he says, grinning. “Now you’re a real boy.”

I remember that story. “I’m not a magic puppet.”

“You didn’t realise you’d manifested.”

“I think it was the sex last night. My powers are coming back.”

He smirks. “Your _powers_. Will sex make you a proper scary demon?”

I point to the case. “Is that hers? The pink lady’s?”

“Obviously.” He hands it to me. “Do keep up, John.” He starts walking.

I drag the pink case as fast as I can after him. “Are we flatmates now? I mean, now that people can see me…”

He’s several strides ahead of me. “I suppose we are.”

I drag the pink case up the stairs to the flat. Mrs Hudson is vacuuming and doesn’t hear.

After a shower to rid himself of the rubbish, Sherlock flops on the sofa once more and closes his eyes. “How did he make them take the poison?” he mutters.

“There was a demon there,” I say.

“I saw no demon.” He frowns.

“I assume you couldn’t see her because she’s not your demon and she didn’t want you to see her. She belonged to Jennifer Wilson.”

“I didn’t know there were female demons.”

It’s my turn to smirk. “Where did you think baby demons come from?”

“Since you don’t die, I assume that you have no need to reproduce. There are no _baby demons_. Simply old demons, endlessly recycled. No need for sex at all.”

He’s right. Most of us only have sex with humans. Not to reproduce, but because humans like sex, and demons gain power when our humans are pleased. We don’t even have gender, not really; we just conform to what our humans expect. I don’t say this, though. He might ask me to become a female, just to spite me. I’m not sure I could manage that and still remain cute.

“You’re fallen angels,” he adds. “Rejects. Defective products of creation.”

I laugh. “Not true. We are the children of the Nephilim. That’s giants to you, human.”

“Giants? Then you must be a dwarf demon.”

I snort, but can’t think of a reply. Demons don’t study history the way humans do because we don’t experience time exactly as they do. If I had parents, I don’t remember them.

“Is she intelligent?” he asks. “Maybe I can trade you in for her.”

“Who?”

“Your little demon girlfriend.”

“Demons don’t have girlfriends,” I say. “Or boyfriends. We just have masters. Hosts. And you wouldn’t trade me in, even if that were possible. You’re used to me.”

_You love me,_ I think. _You used to say it._

He says nothing, closes his eyes and prepares to go into his Mind Palace.

“I talked to her,” I say.

He opens his eyes again. “Who?”

“The demon. She told me who killed Jennifer Wilson.”

He sits up and glares at me. “You might have mentioned it sooner. What did she say?”

“Moriarty.”

“That’s it? Just _Moriarty_?”

I probably should have asked more questions. “She disappeared before I could ask.” I’m thinking: _she lost her mistress_. I have lost masters before, and know how that feels. Maybe a demon has a heart. I don’t know. But I think I know how it would feel to have it break.

He sighs and reclines back on the sofa. “Never mind. Why don’t you make me some tea? Then you can practice de-manifestation. It might come in handy.”

He’s being less stroppy, so I make tea, bring him a mug and set it on the table. I may be rubbish at mind-reading, but I can read his moods. And I make very good tea.

“When will you stop being angry with me?” I ask quietly.

He says nothing. Maybe he didn’t hear me.


	3. Caput Tertium

After several hours of practice, I’m sure that I’ve managed to de-manifest. Pretty sure. Sherlock is asleep on the sofa, Mrs Hudson’s door is shut, and there is no one to verify my visibility, or lack thereof. I’ll have to go out, I decide.

I wonder where Jennifer Wilson’s demon has gone. When a demon’s host dies, they lose much of their power. Eventually, they return to the void, as we say. To Pandaemonium. Jennifer’s demon doesn’t have a name, and she can’t manifest, but I ought to be able to see her. Maybe I’ll head over to Brixton, where I first saw her.

Today my scar is making me limp. A black sedan is following me. I walk more slowly and it slows. I speed up and it goes faster. I conclude that the person in the car can see me.

The car stops, and I focus all my energy on becoming invisible. The car is black, its windows dark, impenetrable. But I don’t sense any evil.

“Get into the car, Dr Watson,” a voice says. It’s a woman.

The window is halfway down now, I bend over a bit and peek inside. The woman is young, attractive, and staring at her phone. “Do I have to threaten you?” she asks without looking at me.

At least I know I’m still visible. “Would you like to?” I ask.

“Just get in the car.”

I do. There is little humans can do to threaten me, but I’m curious.

“Hello,” I say. “What’s your name?”

She glances at me. “Er… Anthea.”

“Ah,” I say. “That’s not your real name.”

She is back to staring at her phone. “No.”

“Do you want to guess my name?”

“No, I don’t. John.”

“You’re a very good guesser,” I say. “Is there any point in asking where we’re going?”

“None at all,” she says. She smiles a bit when she says this, and for some reason it makes me think of Mycroft.

We pull up to an almost-abandoned warehouse building. This is like something out of a movie, I’m thinking as we walk inside. In the darkness, I can see a tall figure leaning on an umbrella. _Mycroft_. I congratulate myself on being right.

I’ve watched movies like this, so I know how to act. And I know Mycroft.

He gives me a fake smile. “Have a seat, _Dr Watson_ — if that is your real name.”

“Do you have a fake name, too?” I might show him I know his real name, call him out on all this _film noir_ phoniness, but it will be more fun to play along, I think. All of the gangster movies I’ve watched will help me sort out which lines I can use.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing at the chair.

I can think of no snappy gangster comeback to this. “I don’t wanna.”

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

He chuckles. “Then you’re a fool. Do you know what interests me about you?”

“My witty retorts?” I ask. “The rather large _gun_ in my pocket?” I don’t actually have a gun. I just remember a line like that. It means I’m glad to see him, I think.

He leans towards me, reminding me how tall he is. He has a fake, frightening smile on his face. “You’re not real.” He looks down his long nose at me.

“Then who are you talking to?” I ask. Does he think he’s hallucinating me?

“Certainly not _Dr John Watson,_ late of Her Majesty’s Royal Medical Corps. There is no such person _._ ”

“Dr John _H_ Watson,” I clarify.

He frowns. “It makes no difference what middle name you’ve decided to insert, that is not your name.”

“Do you want to guess who I am?”

He leans on his umbrella, bringing his eyes level to mine. “I know who you are. Your name doesn’t matter.”

“Clearly you’ve drawn some monumental conclusion from this.”

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“Childhood friend.”

“He doesn’t have friends. I am the closest thing to a friend that he is capable of having.”

“You’re his—” I almost give myself away. “You’re his dealer. Does he owe you money or something?”

Mycroft frowns. “I’m not a drug dealer.”

“Sorry. I thought… you know… the expensive suit, the car with tinted windows, the attractive female companion, the abandoned warehouse… You have to concede that it all fits. Dealer or gangster, you choose.”

He looks offended. Perhaps he is reconsidering his wardrobe. “I am no _dealer,_ and I know a great deal about you, _Doctor._ ”

“Oh, really?” I deflect. I’m not doing very well with witty retorts. “I suppose _gangster_ fits, then.” Gangsters always threaten that they _know things._

“I know that you did _not_ do your medical training at any accredited institution in the United Kingdom or the United States.”

I shrug. “Who says those are the only places to become a doctor?”

“You’re no doctor. You’re only masquerading as one, and not very plausibly.” He gives me a sneery look. “I know who you’re working for. Clearly, they are not compensating you very well.”

“Clearly,” I repeat, having no idea who _they_ are. “You gonna make me an offer I can’t refuse?”

He frowns. Maybe he doesn’t watch _film noir_ , I decide.

He takes a notebook out of his pocket and consults it. “If you are indeed moving into, um… two-twenty-one B Baker Street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

“Why?” I’ve missed something. _This is about money?_ “In exchange for what?”

“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You’re not a rich man.”

Money is a human thing, like time. I know that pounds are more than pennies, just as minutes are less than hours or days or weeks. Other than that, I’m not sure what a good offer would be. Sherlock has rent to pay now, and other things, I assume, so perhaps he’ll be proud of me for bringing in a few pounds. The problem is that I won’t know whether Mycroft is giving me a fair wage. Nobody’s ever offered me a job. And demons don’t negotiate well when the matter involves numbers.

“Go ahead. Make my day,” I say. “Why do you want information on Sherlock?”

“I worry about him,” Mycroft says. “Constantly.”

“That’s nice of you.” It’s good that he realises that he should care about his younger brother.

“I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship.”

“I’m not a very good liar.” This is true, and another one of my failings as a demon. “But I am good at… other stuff.” I’ve run out of gangster lines.

He gives me that sneery look again. “You’re using an assumed identity, passing yourself off as a doctor. I can help with that. A word from me and the GMC will not investigate you.”

“How much?”

This question produces an oily smile. “I’ll pay the rent. And whatever bills you forward to me. But keep this between us. I don’t want him knowing.”

“Got it,” I say. An offer I can’t refuse. Sherlock would be proud. “Where do I sign?”

His smile broadens. “No signature necessary. I’ll take care of it.” He motions to Anthea. “I’ll have my driver take you home. Oh, and Doctor? We’ll talk again.”

The black limo drops me in front of our building. I have forgotten that I don’t have a key to the flat. This means I either have to ring the bell (and wake a very cranky Sherlock) or figure out another way to get myself to the other side of the door. Demons are supposed to be able to do these things. Feeling heady since I have partially mastered manifestation, I decide to attempt teleportation. After a few attempts, I find myself inside the building, though without my clothing, except for my socks. Trousers, shirt, shoes— all gone. I didn’t know that was possible, but here I am, naked in the vestibule of 221B. Quickly I climb the stairs and rattle the doorknob, hoping it’s open. It’s not. I close my eyes, trying once more to work the magic. I visualise my molecules unlinking from one another, flying through the keyhole—

The door vanishes. Sherlock stands on the other side of the threshold, looking like a madman. This does not surprise me.

I walk through the doorway in a manner that suggests doors are superfluous. “I have a job,” I announce. The fact that I am naked except for my socks probably undermines my confident tone.

“Where have you been?” he asks. At this point, I notice that he’s shaking. _Anger? Fear?_

“I was… working on de-manifestation. Getting better, but, I haven’t yet fully mastered it. And I did run into—”

“John.” His arms are around me and he’s trembling. “John.”

“What’s wrong?” I’m panicking, thinking of all the things that might have scared him. Odoacer, for one. It was because of him that I had to go to war. “Sherlock, has someone hurt you?”

“Urmph,” he says into my hair. “Ow. Horns.”

“I’m sorry, they pop out when I’m protecting you,” I say. “Tell me who hurt you. I’ll kill them.”

“You did.” I feel warm tears on my bare shoulder. “ _You_ hurt me. You left me and you came back, and then you left again. I thought you weren’t coming back, that you’d left for good.”

“I’m your demon. I’ll always come back,” I say, stroking his back.

We stand there, just breathing for a moment. I try to make myself taller, but the only place I’m gaining inches is in my horns.

“Your brother kidnapped me.”

He raises his head. “What did he want?”

“He thinks I’m not real. And he said he’d pay me to spy on you.”

Looking a bit pleased, he asks, “How much?”

“He’ll pay the rent and any bills we forward to him.”

“Excellent.” He fingers my horns. “You haven’t retracted.”

“I’m still feeling protective. I would kill anyone who threatens you. You do know that, don’t you?”

“It’s a bit sexy,” he says, testing the tips. “You were gone a long time, John. Seven years is a very long time for humans. The psychologist almost had me convinced that you weren’t real.”

“I had to go, to protect you. Why does that make you angry?”

Of all human emotions, you would think that anger would be the one most easily understood by a demon. This is not so. The emotional range of a demon is really quite narrow, compared to humans. Like dogs, we are happy or sad, protective or confused. I’m happy when Sherlock is happy, when his mental processes are humming along and he is deducing things. I am sad when he is unhappy or bored, or when other humans call him a freak. And I am always protective of him, always looking out for anything that might harm him. There is little for a demon to fear, except for losing his human.

“How would you feel if I disappeared?” he asks. “If you thought I was dead for seven years, and then reappeared as if nothing had happened?”

“I would know you weren’t dead,” I say. _I would have felt it if you died._

“But I didn’t know you weren’t dead. I didn’t know what to think. You didn’t even tell me you were leaving. I just woke up one day, and you were gone.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.

“I know you are. But I want to understand why you left.”

Time is a source of confusion for me. In my perspective, seven minutes differs little from seven years. For Sherlock, I think, it is a significant difference. Time moves in one direction, and there can be no going back. For humans, it is a death march.

Sherlock _missed_ me. He thought he had lost me. Those things have to do with time.

“I should have explained it better,” I say. “It was because of Victor.”

“Victor? My old roommate?”

At university, Sherlock had a roommate named Victor Trevor. I didn’t like Victor. His father was somebody semi-important who’d made a lot of money selling cars. Victor told everybody that his father had come to England from Australia and started selling anything humans would buy, making millions of pounds. He was very proud of this. He was not so happy that his father wanted him to go to Cambridge. As a result, he became an entrepreneur of drugs. And he hooked up with Odoacer, who made him worse.

“Because of his demon,” I clarify.

“You never told me he had a demon.”

I nod. “You remember when his family took him home because they found out about the drugs?”

“I remember. They belonged to some religious cult and wanted to do an exorcism.” He laughs.

“It’s nothing to laugh about,” I reply. “They exorcised his demon and he went mad.”

“That can happen?”

“If you don’t do it right. Happened to me once. Not a bit funny.”

He turns serious. “You said you left because of this demon. What was its name?”

“I can’t say it. Saying a demon’s name can accidentally summon him. Without a circle, you wouldn’t be able to control him, and I would have to fight him again.”

Understanding dawns on his face. “Your wound— what did he do to you?”

“Tried to do. He wanted to possess you. He knew you were smart, and thought he could gain power if he possessed you. The only way for him to do it was to break our bond. I wouldn’t let him. That’s why I went to Pandaemonium.”

“The war.”

I nodded. “We battled. Separated from you, I became weaker and weaker. He became weaker, too. I might have lasted him out, but other demons were drawn to the battle and joined in. That increased the energy, but there were no sides, no winners, no losers. Just chaos. And then, it ended.”

“How did it end? You said nobody won or lost.”

“We don’t understand these things. It’s a force. It comes together, but it eventually loses power and falls apart.”

“Entropy,” he says. “Decline into chaos.”

“When that happened, he was gone, and I came back to protect you. I was afraid you might…” Sadness filled my eyes with tears. “I thought he might return and…”

“John, you know I wouldn’t summon another demon.”

“He’s powerful, Sherlock. He might have trapped me in Pandaemonium, and then he would have simply possessed you.”

“Trapped you? How? I thought—“

“It isn’t easy, but it can happen. There are many demons who have lost the power to be summoned and can exist only in the void. In this world, demons coexist chaotically with other demons, but we’re all basically loners, except for our host relationship. Here, there aren’t many demon conflicts. But there are a few humans who use demons to gain power, and a few demons who are drawn to that thirst for power. I’m afraid Victor’s demon has found such a human.”

“Who is it?”

“I think it’s Moriarty.”

Before he can answer me, we hear Mrs Hudson exclaiming, “Sherlock! What have you done to your door?”

Sherlock smirks at me. “Maybe you should put on some clothing, John.” He hands me his dressing gown, chuckling.

I’d forgotten about my missing clothes. Quickly, I slip into his gown. “Sorry, Mrs Hudson! It’s my fault. I was trying to teleport through the door.”

“He didn’t have his key,” Sherlock explains.

She looks at us both for a solid minute, most likely wondering whether the missing door or my horns are the more alarming development.

“You and your experiments!” she grumbles. “I’m drawing a line, you two— no removing fixtures. I expect the door to be hanging from its jamb by the time I get back from playing Mahjong with Mrs Turner.”

As she heads back down the stairs, Sherlock turns to me. “Can you fix it?” he asks. “Or do we have to buy a new door?”

“I don’t know where it is,” I say. “Maybe in Pandaemonium.”

“Well, don’t go there looking for it.” He smiles down at me. “We’ll just have to bill Mycroft for another one.”

“What does he want to know about you?”

“He thinks I’ve gone mad because I’ve started talking to you again. Or that I’m taking cocaine to counteract the effects of the anti-psychotics I keep flushing down the toilet. You just need to tell him I’m not taking illegal drugs, but I am taking my meds.”

“But you’re not really going to take the meds, are you?”

“Of course not. Can’t afford to be dull now. I’ve still got a murder to solve.” He smirks. “You do understand why he’s paying you to spy on me?”

“He doesn’t trust you.”

“Don’t be obtuse, John. He has cameras. He always knows what I’m up to. What he’s actually trying to suss out is you.”

“Me?”

He rolls his eyes. “You gave your name as John Watson, a person who doesn’t exist, at any rate not as a thirty-year old ex-army surgeon. I grant you, it was a more than lucky chance that you chose such a common name. But my brother is able to access satellite footage of every John Watson in the United Kingdom. He has their birth certificates, school records, and knows everything they have done since they reached the age of majority. What he has undoubtedly learned is that none of them are you. Thus, he knowsyou’re concealing something and intends to find out who you really are.”

I remember what Mycroft said: _I know who you’re working for…_

“I could tell him the truth,” I say.

“Then we’ll both be locked up. No, I’m afraid Mycroft is never going to believe you’re a demon. It’s better if he thinks you a spy.”

“Okay. So, what next?”

“I’m going to think about the phone,” he says, settling himself on the sofa. “You’re going to go look for her demon. Maybe you can find our door while you’re at it.”

Our door might be anywhere in this world or some other world. I’d rather focus on finding Jennifer’s demon before she disappears into the void. For that, I will have to go underground.

I de-manifest as I enter the train station because I don’t have an Oyster card. I might take a train to Brixton. I don’t know where Jennifer Wilson lived, but Lauriston Gardens was where she died. Sometimes orphaned demons return to their master’s home out of a sense of familiarity, but I have only this. I should have asked where she lived. Brixton will be a waste of time, I decide.

Unbound demons often hang out in the underground when they’re looking for a new master; it reminds them of Pandaemonium— the noise, the smells, the tremors, the unreliable lighting. Just like home. Invisible, I prowl through the tunnels, looking for her. No luck. Instead, I run into an old friend.

“Dante!” I call out. He is sitting on a bench, watching the trains rattle by.

He looks up, spots me, and beckons. “Well, Lucian! It’s been ages.”

I approach. “Are you bound?”

He rolls his eyes. “He’s named me Milo. You?”

I nod, smiling sheepishly. “You know how I am. Mine calls me John. What’s your human like?”

“He’s a politician. Managed to snag him when he was studying his career path, thinking about selling his soul to get reelected. Boring, annoying, unscrupulous, and pontificating. He wants an audience, not a demon. Yours?”

“He’s fine.”

“Drug addict, right?”

“No, he’s moved on. Now he solves crimes. But I just got back from Pandaemonium, and he’s a bit grumpy about me being gone.”

“I heard you saw a bit of action.”

“Enough for several eternities,” I say.

He looks around, cautious. No humans can see or hear us, but demons are skilled eavesdroppers. You never know who might be listening. “You might see some more action,” he says, quietly.

“Oh?”

“Just watch yourself,” he whispers. Then louder, “What brings you down here?”

“Looking for a demon who just lost her mistress. Murdered.”

He arches an eyebrow at me. “Murdered?”

“Near here. I don't know her name. She was bound to a human named Jennifer Wilson.”

His face drains of all colour. In the dim light of the underground, he is grey.

“You know her?” I ask.

He nods. “Rachel was her name.”

“Where can I find her?”

“No idea.” He's not telling me something. Reading my scowl, he volunteers, “Your nemesis is looking for her as well.”

“My nemesis— why?”

“Listen, Lucian—”

“John.”

He comes close to my ear and murmurs, “Stay bound. They’re snatching up unbound demons. That’s why it’s virtually empty down here. If Rachel hasn’t found a new host, you can forget finding her.”

“Who’s doing this?” I think _Moriarty._

“You'll have to ask someone else.” He smiles carelessly. “I don't talk much to anyone these days. I just mind my business— and my human’s business, as boring as that sounds.”

“Ask somebody else? Who should I ask?” I press. Maybe it’s _whom,_ I think. English grammar, as Sherlock often points out, is not my strong point.

He shrugs. “Better not to ask.”

_Where is Rachel?_ I’m on a train, returning from Lauriston Gardens. No demons. It was a long shot, anyway, but it gives me another idea.

_Where is her body?_

When a human is murdered, Sherlock once explained to me, their body has to be examined in a hospital, to make sure police know what killed them. Jennifer Wilson’s body will be in a hospital, and I’m guessing it will be the one where I found Sherlock a few days ago. I remember Molly, the woman who worked there. Now that I can manifest, I can talk to her and find out more about Jennifer. Maybe she can tell me where she lived.

Demons are rubbish at giving directions, but we have an inerrant sense of direction. Sherlock might call me clumsy, but I am as good as GPS when it comes to finding things. (Including our door, which has materialised somewhere in the Antipodes.) And I can always find Sherlock. Right now, I know he is still in the flat, lying motionless on the sofa, still thinking about the case. He’s talking to the skull, calling it an idiot.

I arrive at Barts Hospital. Having been in the morgue before, I take the lift down a floor. As I open the door, I can hear voices from the autopsy room. Through the window I can see Jennifer’s body splayed open and Molly taking samples from her organs.

“I’ve never met a fairy before,” Molly is saying. “You’re very nice. I like your wings.”

Hovering at her elbow is Rachel.

I open the door.

Molly turns, frowning. “Who are you?”

“I’m John.” I nod at Rachel. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“You can see her?” Molly turns towards the demon, looking confused. “I thought you said most humans can’t see fairies.”

Rachel looks embarrassed. “I’m not actually a fairy.”

“And I’m not actually human,” I admit.

Molly looks back at me, seeming to remember where we are. “How did you get in here? What do you want?”

“I need to talk to your… erm… fairy.”

“It’s all right,” Rachel says. “I should explain to Molly.”

“There’s no time,” I say. “Somebody’s snatching up unbound demons.”

She nods. “I know. That’s why Jennifer was killed, because he wanted me.”

“The name you told me?”

“Yes. Don’t say it. You need to be careful, too.”

“I’m bound to Sherlock, so I’m safe.”

Molly gapes. “Sherlock? Is he in trouble?”

“We’re demons,” Rachel explains. “I was bound to Jennifer. John is bound to Sherlock.” She looks at me. “But he killed Jennifer to get me. You need to protect Sherlock.”

“Demons?” Molly laughs.

“And now she’s unbound,” I add. “Look, Molly, I know this is weird, but if you want to help Rachel, you need to give her a new name.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The person who killed Jennifer Wilson works for a human who is forming some kind of demon army. He’s probably looking for Rachel right now. She needs to bind herself to someone in order to be safe.”

Molly looks at me, obviously trying to decide something. “The other day. You were talking to Sherlock.”

“Yes. I was invisible, but he could see me.”

“Do you have wings?”

Immediately I unfurl. I am rather proud of my wings, which are much larger than anyone would guess, given my size. Molly looks impressed.

“I just never thought…” She turns to Rachel. “How am I seeing you?”

Rachel looks at Jennifer’s body. “Because of her. I cling to her because of our bond. But soon it will fade and I’ll return to Pandaemonium.”

“But if I name you, you’ll stay?”

“Please, Molly,” I say.

She gazes at Rachel, doing what all humans do when given the task of naming something. It’s a moment of power, and she wants to get it right. “Violet,” she says after a long silence. “Your name is Violet.”

As the final _-t_ clicks on her tongue, another demon comes through the wall. It’s Odoacer.

“You can’t touch her,” I say. “And you can’t touch me.”

He grins horribly. If Sherlock wanted a proper scary demon, Odoacer is probably what he imagined. He is large, ugly, and has one eye that wanders.

“What makes you think I want to touch you?” he asks.

“You can’t have Sherlock,” I reply, drawing myself up. My wings are still unfurled, and I hope they make me look bigger. “Give it up, Odoacer. You might as well go back into the void.”

“I have a new name,” he says. “And a new master. He sends greetings to you, John Watson, and a warning. _You cannot stop me, so stand clear._ Tell that to Sherlock Holmes.”

“And who shall I tell him sends this warning? Not that it makes any difference. He will not back down from danger.”

Odoacer laughs. “It’s not danger. It’s inevitable destruction. His name is Moriarty. He has named me Moran.” He circles around me, his wings brushing the ceiling. “Anytime, John Watson. I will meet you anywhere in this world or in hell so we can finish what we began. You cannot beat me now, though. Moriarty is greater than Sherlock Holmes, and has given me more power than any demon has ever commanded.”

_The demon army,_ I think. Moriarty and he have figured out how to bind unbound demons and will unleash them, taking over every part of the human world. A demon nation.

“Get out of here, you devil,” I say, hoping that my eyes have turned red. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“ _Whom_ ,” he says, sneering, and vanishes in a cloud of smoke.


	4. Caput Quartum

Now that Rachel— or Violet as she’s been named— is safe with Molly, I head back to Baker Street. It’s late, and the sky is darkening. Because my wings are still unfurled, I decide to fly. Much better than being stared at on the train.

As I land in front of 221B, I see lights on in the flat, police cars parked outside. Not a good sign. I race up the stairs, folding up my wings and making myself invisible, the better to assess the threat. Bursting through the empty doorframe, I hear Lestrade speaking.

“Well, I knew you’d find the suitcase. I’m not stupid,” he says, frowning at where I’m standing, invisible.

Sherlock replies. “You can’t just break into my flat.”

Lestrade gives an abrupt laugh. “Tampering with evidence. You can get time for that. And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Well, what do you call this then?”

A brief silence. “Sherlock. Your flat doesn’t have a door.”

“But it’s my flat. You entered. Door or no door, you weren’t invited in.”

I step into the flat. Lestrade is looking around. He turns to Sherlock, smiling benevolently. “It’s a drugs bust.”

_No,_ I say. _He’s clean._ Nobody hears me, of course. I haven’t manifested. And at this point, it would look strange to suddenly pop into view. I wait.

“What’s Anderson doing here?” Sherlock growls. “He’s not on the narcotics squad.”

Lestrade smirks. “They all volunteered.”

Sherlock scoffs. “This is childish.”

“I’m dealing with a child,” Lestrade says. “Sherlock, this is our case. I’m letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?”

“I wasn’t going to withhold the suitcase.”

Lestrade leans towards him, intimidating him. He’s as tall as Sherlock and much more substantial. “My case. You follow my rules, or I’ll arrest you.”

“You’re bullying me!”

“If we find something, it’s not bullying.”

“I’m clean!” Sherlock says.

“So let’s work together,” Lestrade says. “We need to find Rachel.”

“Daughter,” Sherlock suggests. “But why would she write her name? Why?”

_No_ , I say. _It’s her demon._

He’s pacing, ignoring me.

“Why think of her daughter in her last moments, when she knew she was going to die?” Anderson rolls his eyes. “Yup— sociopath.”

Sherlock turns, exasperated. “She didn’t just _think_ of Rachel. She scratched her name into the floor— with her fingernails. Must have been painful.”

“She never had a child,” says Lestrade. He smirks at Sherlock. “Yeah, we checked. I’m not a complete idiot.”

“Stillborn?” asks Sherlock.

Lestrade shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Rachel,” he says. “Who is she?”

_Her demon_ , I say. _Rachel was her demon._

Sherlock glances at me, not willing to fully acknowledge my presence.

_She was the demon I talked to_ , I tell him. _I went looking for her—_

He’s doing something with his laptop. “The smartphone. She planted it on him—”

Now he’s pacing. Mrs Hudson appears at the door, looking anxious. “Your taxi, Sherlock.”

He ignores her. “The password is—”

“Rachel,” I say.

He gives me a quick smile. My heart flips.

Anderson scoffs. “So what? We can read her email. How does that help?”

“GPS-enabled,” Sherlock says, typing rapidly. “ _Find My Phone_. It will lead us right to him. Come on, come on…” He leans impatiently against the desk, watching the screen.

Lestrade shakes his head. “Just a map reference, not a name.”

Mrs Hudson is looking down the stairway. “Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver…”

Sherlock is staring at the screen now, frowning. “Oh!” He looks as if something important had just occurred to him. Then, he bounds towards the door, grabbing his coat— and leaving me in the dust, as always.

_Where are you going?_ I call after him.

He runs down the stairs. “Fresh air. Won’t be long.”

I lean over the desk, trying to see what the computer just told him. _221B Baker Street…_ I touch the computer, angling it so I can see. The screen goes dark. “Fuck!” I shout.

Lestrade looks around, confused. Perhaps he heard me, but he can’t see me, so he frowns at the laptop. “Why does he do that? Just up and bloody leaves—”

“He’s a lunatic,” Donovan replies. “Wasting our time.”

_The phone!_ I say, suddenly understanding. _The cabby has the phone!_

Lestrade picks up his coat, “All right, we’re done.”

_No! The cabby has the phone— you’ve got to follow him!_ I try manifesting again, but agitation works against me. I stand in the doorway. They walk right through me.

Naturally, Sherlock has left in the cab. I glare at the blank screen of the laptop. If I hadn’t touched it—

A cockroach is walking along the edge of the desk. It chuckles. “I see what you did there,” it says. “You always were pants at technology, Pookie. Missed your calling. Would have made a good gremlin, mate.”

“Nano?” I lean down to the roach’s level. “That you?”

“‘Course it’s me,” he replies, still tiny, but now in gremlin form. “I was in the neighbourhood, heard your flatmate clacking the keys. That’s my signal, like pollen to a bee. Was going to infect his gizmo with a bug, but you got there first.”

“Well, nice seeing you,” I say. “Gotta go now.” I can feel where the cab is heading and will follow. I attempt to unfurl my wings. Nothing happens.

Nano is chuckling. “Looks like you’ve got a bug, too.”

“It’s an allergy,” I snap.

“You’re allergic to laptops?”

“Laptops, phones, computers, most forms of technology.”

Even small appliances give me problems sometimes. It’s embarrassing, but I’ve learned to live with it. Right now, I need wings. I try again. Something happens.

“Lucifer!” Nano rolls over on his back, he’s laughing so hard. “You’re a fucking fairy!”

It’s true. The wings that I’ve managed to unfurl are not my usual wings. These are gossamer, and rather iridescent. Not scary, more suitable for flitting than flying. I assume it’s a symptom of my allergic response. Sneezing would be a lot easier to deal with.

I test the wings, and they feel normal. Flying is more of a state of mind for demons, not so much physics. If they work, I can follow the cab.

“Off with you, then!” Nano giggles. “First star on the right and straight on till morning!”

I stretch my new wings, getting the stiffness out. Rising up from the floor, I hover a bit as I get my balance.

“Think happy thoughts!” Nano reminds me. “Have you got enough pixie dust to get back?”

“Shut up,” I say in my most demonic growl. “You’re a cockroach.”

All demons have a homing instinct for their masters, so it isn’t hard to find my bearings. I see the cab in a car park outside a group of buildings. They’ve already gone inside, I infer. I flit from window to window, trying to find him.

I’ve had many masters, but none required as much rescuing as Sherlock. And he seems to expect a lot from me in that regard. If I disappoint him again, I should expect to be exorcised. Actually, it’s worse than that. If I fail this time, he may die. I will be alone, unbound.

I diminish my size to make myself less noticeable. With a burst of flitting, I home in on his position, enter the first building through an open window. I can hear the evening cleaning crews. No worries. I’m small and hovering near the ceiling, the whirring of my wings covered by the hum of a floor polisher. The twin buildings are part of a school, I realise. That doesn’t help me locate Sherlock, but it does tell me that this cabby has a plan. He’s picked a deserted building, late at night, where he can have the leisure to convince my human that he ought to swallow a poison pill. How he will do that, I have no idea.

I am on full alert, ready to swallow any soul that has the balls to threaten, much less attack, my human. I only hope I am as strong as I feel.

It’s his smell that leads me to the correct room. The cabby is a dying human, I can tell. He give off an aura of disease and rot. I sail through the transom window, light on top of a bookcase and fold my wings.

Sherlock notices me, but doesn’t speak. I understand that he doesn’t want to acknowledge my presence, reveal his secret weapon. Or he's embarrassed to be accompanied by a tiny, non-scary demon with fairy wings.

He and the cabby banter about the murders, discuss the little pill bottle he holds in his fingers.

“Come on,” the cabby says, grinning with his terrible teeth. “Play the game.” He sets both bottles on the table, daring him to choose.

“No!” I yell in a tiny voice. “Don’t play the game!”

Sherlock sweeps past the cabby, snatches one of the bottles off the table.

“Oh, interesting,” the cabby says. “So what d’you think?”

_Don’t_ , I say. _Sherlock, I mean it._

He gives me another glance, one that means: _tell me if there’s poison in this one._

“How am I supposed to know?” I squeak.

“I bet you get bored,” the cabby is saying. “I know you. A bloke like you…”

“There is no way to tell,” I say. “Just by looking—”

“Still the addict. But we both know what you’re really addicted to, don’t we?”

Sherlock opens the bottle, shakes the pill into his hand.

“Stop!” I yell. “You’re not doing this!”

Sherlock is looking at the pill as if he might just take it, just to prove how clever he is.

I do the only thing I can think of. I zoom down from my perch. Before he can register surprise at my appearance, I throw myself at the cabby, knocking him down, and sit on him.

“Bloody hell,” he wheezes, looking up at me, and then at Sherlock, who still holds the pill bottle. “What the fuck? A fairy?”

“I’m not a fairy!” I shout. “I’m a demon. Do your research!”

He laughs. This enrages me, and I begin to grow larger and heavier. As the weight on his chest increases, the cabby starts to spit blood.

“Who was it?” Sherlock yells. “My fan— who was it? The one who told you about me?”

“No,” the cabby gasps.

“Tell me!” Sherlock glares at me. “Do let him breathe, John. Just for a moment, so he can speak properly.”

“Do as he says,” I growl in the cabby’s ear. “Who?”

The cabby’s eyes are wild, roving about the room. “Moriarty!” he screams. Then, he dies.

“Wonderful,” Sherlock mutters. “Just when he was beginning to tell me something useful.”

“I told you,” I say, feeling unappreciated. “Moriarty. He was the one Rachel said killed Jennifer Wilson.”

“But I might have learned more,” Sherlock protests. “If you hadn’t sat on him quite so hard, he might have said more.”

I’m starting to shrink back to my normal size. “Excuse me,” I say, “for trying to save your life.”

He scoffs. “I wouldn’t have died,” he says. “I chose the non-poison pill.”

“You sure?” The pill is on the floor. I use lengthen my tongue and scoop it into my mouth. At once, I know.

“John,” he huffs. Then he begins to frown. “You’re turning green. Interesting, and not unattractive, but I suspect it’s a bit not good. What’s happening?

I cough. I feel my limbs drawing in.

“Now you’re curling up like a dead spider. John! John?”

I writhe for a moment, unable to speak.

“I thought demons were impervious to poison,” he says. “You’re all right, aren’t you?’

Hearing a bit of concern in his voice, I rally. Coughing, I attempt to stand.“Of course,” I squeak.

“All right,” he concedes. “I chose wrong. Now, stop coughing.”

I try to look pathetic. “Sorry.” I cough. An actual spider pops out of my mouth.

“John, stop it. Stop… scaring me. You’re fine. Aren’t you?”

“I think so,” I wheeze. “Glad you’re not dead.”

“Me, too.” He pulls me to my feet. “The police are on their way. I texted Lestrade. Can you put your wings away?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.” I cough up another spider. “I think.”

“John,” he says. “You’re immortal, right?”

“I guess so.” Another cough produces a small toad.

“Then you won’t die.”

“Probably not,” I reply. “But I might feel pathetic for a while.”

He smiles. “Just don’t die.”

I can’t help it. I need a hug, so I throw my arms around him. He lets me.

“Okay,” he says, prying me off after a moment has passed. “Here’s Lestrade. And— dear God, Mycroft is here, too. Fold up your wings and try not to cough up any more spiders.”

I’m not the hero, apparently. That’s Sherlock Holmes, who somehow forced the cabby to confess that he killed all four of the suicide victims. And who somehow did not take the poison pill himself. I don’t expect any credit, so there’s nothing to be disappointed about. Demons don’t require recognition. I would settle for a cuddle.

I follow as Sherlock approaches his brother. “Well, Mycroft. Are you going to threaten me again? Send me off to rehab, perhaps?”

“At present, no. You seem… improved.” He glances at me. “Not talking to yourself any more, I am told.”

“I never was talking to myself, _dear brother_ ,” Sherlock replies.

“Sherlock.” He gives him an ingratiating smile. “This petty feud between us is simply childish. You know how it always upsets Mummy when we argue.” He frowns down at me.

Sherlock grins. “Say hello to my little friend.”

I belch, and another, somewhat larger toad hops out of my mouth. “Hi.”

“Doctor Watson,” he replies. “How nice to see you again.”

Sherlock smirks. “Good evening, Mycroft.” In a swirl of Belstaff, he strides away. I trot after him.

“Thank you,” he mutters.

“What?” My demon ears must be playing tricks on me. Sherlock Holmes never expresses gratitude.

“I said, _thank you_.” He closes his eyes and sighs, then opens them and looks at me. “That thing you… er… you did. Back there. That was… good.”

“You mean… um. Sitting on him?”

“Yes, that,” he says, chuckling. “And the pill. Thank you for… rescuing me.”

“You might have taken me with you. Demons have some uses, you know.”

“I know. I’m out of the habit of having you follow me around.” He reaches down and takes my hand. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Maybe,” I say, feeling less pathetic. “Maybe you’d like me to be your incubus again. Later, tonight.”

“I would be amenable to that,” he says, smiling now. “Are you done feeling pathetic?”

“I think so.”

His smile broadens. “Good. Are you hungry?”

I open my mouth to explain (again) that demons don’t get hungry, they just get cranky when their hosts don’t eat, but something is happening around us. Above us.

I can feel them, thousands of them. Demons.

“It’s happening,” I say, pointing up at the sky.

At first it looks like a storm, the clouds rolling in, piling up in a thunderhead, but then the sky cracks in a burst of light, and it’s like a swarm of locusts pouring out, descending on us.

“John,” Sherlock says, grabbing me.

There is no time. I feel myself drawn into the maelstrom. Better to make a controlled launch than simply be sucked in. I take off, leaving him behind.

“John!” I can feel his panic, but I’m already being absorbed into the the void.


	5. Caput Quintum

Returning from Pandaemonium, I feel like I’ve been spun in a very large blender. I’m not even sure what the war was about. Well, that’s the nature of Pandaemonium. When it breaks loose, there isn’t any reason for it, not that you could explain to someone like Sherlock. I wonder how I’ll apologise to him this time. I just hope it hasn’t been seven years.

London is below me, growing larger and closer by the second. I can see Barts Hospital, and my homing instinct draws me there. That’s where Sherlock is. I might find him in the lab again, with Molly. He’ll be beating a corpse again, or something equally strange, and we’ll have the same painful conversation we had last time I found him in the lab. Well, I hope not.

I’m beginning to sense danger, but not directed at me. It’s Sherlock who is in danger. The war might have ended, but the threat has not. My gut wrenches; once again, I have not been here to protect him.

There, on the roof of Barts, two men. One is Sherlock. I don’t recognise the other, but my wound whispers, _Moriarty._

Sherlock is talking to him. He’s an average looking human, one you’d scarcely notice in a crowd, but he is giving off a very peculiar vibe. This might be the influence of Odoacer— Moran, as he is now called. Or it might be the result of something I have heard of, but never seen.

A demon can form a voluntary bond with a human. It’s a symbiotic relationship, both parties benefiting. But there are certain humans who are unusually susceptible to demons, and sometimes they can be possessed by multiple demons, a horde of demons creating their own pandaemonium inside a host. It’s like an infection, with no antibodies coming to the battle. It’s rare, but it can happen. This is why medieval humans invented exorcism, a brutal, but effective cure. Unfortunately, the patient doesn’t always survive.

I descend, prepared to defend Sherlock.

Moriarty speaks in a voice that shrieks like a thousand demons. He holds a gun, and now Sherlock is standing on the ledge, looking down at the traffic. I can see the tears on his face, hear the tremor in his voice as he says, “John, I’m sorry.”

He steps off the roof, his arms extended, his coat flapping behind him like wings. He is Lucifer, falling from heaven.

A burst of demonic energy surges through me. My tired wings transform, becoming larger and more powerful, swiftly carrying me under him, so that I catch him before he meets the pavement.

He’s all right. I can feel his fear and confusion and dawning relief as I soar to the roof with him in my arms.

“I need to finish this battle,” I tell him, setting him down gently. “Stay here.”

He looks up at me, his face blank with terror. “John. You— you came back.”

“‘Course I did.” I try to smile reassuringly, but feel my enemy advancing. I turn and face him.

Moriarty looks at me with eyes that are dead, a face that shifts and changes, revealing glimpses of every demon inside of him. An evil man who learned to collect demons, who thought he could possess them and use their power as his own.

“I am Legion.” A chorus of voices, like winds howling across a desert.

My body reacts, growing larger and stronger. My skin stretches, then turns red— not like a sunburn, but the colour of flames, then dark, like ashes. My eyes glow. I feel my horns extending, my wings lengthening. I might have five legs ending in hooves. Whatever my physical form is doing, I have little control over the process. It’s an instinctive reaction, one stronger than any I’ve felt before.

I look down on Moriarty, towering over him.

“Give them up.” My tail ( _I have a tail?_ ) whips towards him, the pointed end of it coming within inches of his face. “You really must give them up.”

When he does not move, I let out a deafening bellow, a demonic shockwave that reverberates below the frequency range of human ears. The air pulses.

He staggers back from me, his face rapidly shifting. Now he has three eyes, now seven. No eyes, a hundred eyes, then the eyes of a goat. The face of an angel, the face of a demon. He has one arm, one leg, twenty legs, no head. His parts dissolve and reassemble in random configurations. He is a man, a woman, a child, a crone, a beast. His mouth grins and sneers and suddenly gapes wide, his jaw unhinging.

The legion of demons pours out of him like a swarm of insects, buzzing and shrieking, suddenly freed from their prison. They dissipate into the air as quickly as they appear.

Moriarty remains sprawled on the roof, lifeless.

I notice that Sherlock is standing beside me, looking down at him. “Is he dead?”

As I lean over the body, poking it to see if there is any life, one final demon surges out of him. Odoacer.

He’s much smaller than I remember him. Or maybe I’m just that much bigger. Growling, I give him my best red-eyed demon glare. Under my gaze, he begins to shrink, smaller and smaller, until he is roughly the size of a tabby cat.

In fact, he _is_ a tabby cat.

Sherlock looks up at me. “What did you do to him?”

“Not sure. I might have… sort of… er… turned him into one of Molly’s cats.”

I can hear feet on the stairway. My protective rage spent, I begin to return to my normal dimensions. I feel my horns diminishing into nubs.

“Retract your wings,” Sherlock reminds me as the door swings open.

Fortunately, it’s just Molly. Violet hovers near her shoulder, a tiny, protective fairy.

Molly looks worried. “What happened? I was coming into the building and I saw this huge thing on the roof, and Violet said it was John…“ Seeing me, she stops, smiles nervously. “Hello, John.”

“Yeah.” I feel a bit self-conscious. “We were just, erm.”

“I like your tail,” she says.

I turn and see that I do in fact have a tail, a rather long one that ends in an arrow.

Sherlock smiles and blushes. “I like it too. Very, um, demonic.”

I feel my skin turning a bit pink too, my horns beginning to poke out.

Molly notices Moran, who has started to clean his paws.

“Tiger! Where have you been, you naughty cat?” Molly picks up the tabby. It purrs loudly. “You bad boy! What have you been up to?”

“Maybe we should call the police?” I suggest to Sherlock.

“No need,” Molly says. “I did.”

Sure enough, sirens are approaching. I glance at Moriarty’s body. It looks empty, a container that has lost its contents. Well, let the police figure it out. I can’t explain it, not in a way that they will understand.

Sherlock nods. “Let’s go home, John.”

At the kerb waits a black car with darkened windows. As we approach, Mycroft steps out.

Sherlock grabs my hand. “What are you doing here, Mycroft?”

“I was concerned about you.” His eyes shift to me. “Though I see that your little protector is back. Your— _daemon_.” He studies me, his mouth curved into a peculiar smile. I can’t tell if he’s amazed or just has gas. “You know, _John,_ your powers could come in handy.”

“No.” Sherlock and I say it simultaneously.

“Don’t you see?” Sherlock says. “Demons don’t fight for political causes. They fight to protect their hosts. Moriarty thought he could enslave them, but one person can’t control so many demons. It drove him mad, in the end.” He smiles down at me. “One is enough. And now, we’re going home. Do try not to start a war before we get there, Mycroft. You know what it does to the traffic.”

We begin walking away.

“John.”

I turn and look at Mycroft, not letting go of Sherlock’s hand. My tail switches menacingly. I’m going to have to do something about that; one can’t walk around London with a tail hanging out of one’s trousers, especially if it ends in an arrow.

“All this time.” He looks as if something is finally sinking in. “You were right there, under my nose, and I had no idea. Are there many others?”

I deduce why he’s suddenly curious. “You’ll need some bait. Chocolate biscuits work well. Give him a name, not something obnoxious. Most important of all, though, demons need love. And sex. Lots of sex.”

His expression morphs into something like horror. “Ghastly.”

We’re sitting in our chairs. I made tea and now Sherlock is sipping it, looking at me with a slightly crazed look that could mean any number of things. He is angry, I decide. Better to let him have his say.

“You—“ He stops, takes a deep breath, looks at me. “You were… quite scary. Terrifying, in fact. I didn’t know you could do that.”

“No one ever threatened you like that before.”

“Thank you.” He grins. “A proper, scary demon.”

“ _Your_ demon.” I return his smile.

“Well, don’t think I’m not angry with you. You promised you wouldn’t leave, and you did.”

I open my mouth to explain.

“No,” he says. “You’re going to say that there was another war, that you were called up and had to go, that demons don’t understand time, and you thought you were only gone a few minutes—“

“How long?”

He shrugs. “This time, a week. Doesn’t matter. You were gone, and I was afraid—“ He shrugs again and wipes his eyes with the side of his hand.

“The only reason I will ever leave is to protect you,” I say, pulling him to his feet. “Or if you want me to. You could exorcise me. It’s been done before.”

“No.” He puts his arms around me. One of his hands sneaks into my hair, feeling for my horns. Still protective, I let them emerge. “I need you, John.”

“You were going to kill yourself.” My voice shakes. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t.”

I push him back into his chair, crawl into his lap. My wound is finally healed, my powers restored. “I can’t help being a demon, Sherlock. Demons have wars, sometimes for no reason.”

“So do humans.”

“What I mean is, we’re unpredictable. But I won’t ever abandon you. It’s simply not possible. I belong to you, and I will always protect you.”

Sherlock grabs my tail and begins to stroke it. “This is interesting,” he says, fingering the point. “Is it retractable?”

My horns are fully out, but not because I’m feeling protective. I wrap my tail around his waist, pull him closer. “Shall we find out?”

😈 Finis 😈

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover | A Demon's Tale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28734024) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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